


A Matter of Trust

by imaginary_iby



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-09-25
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:34:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginary_iby/pseuds/imaginary_iby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The more Gracie learns about guns, about SEALs and just what, exactly, Steve used to do for his country, the less sure she is that she knows him at all - and the less sure she is that she can trust him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Matter of Trust

Gracie doesn’t really have an opinion one way or the other about guns. For as long as she can remember, they’ve just been a part of life, a weird black object on her father’s belt that she doesn’t really pay much attention to. She sees the way the other kids at school - the kids who like to play cops and robbers during lunch break - stare at her dad in awe when he comes to pick her up. They gawk at him, their curious eyes zoomed in on his holster, utterly entranced by how _amazingly cool_ and _totally awesome_ his gun is.

Every few months, ever since she was old enough to hold a conversation, her dad has sat her down and they’ve had, “the gun talk.” At the ripe old age of twelve, she knows it by heart. He tells her that whenever she is staying with him, his guns will always be disassembled and locked away in the safe under the desk in the office. He tells her that under no circumstances is she to touch, or try to open, the safe.

As the years go by, she ends up having the same talk with Uncle Steve. Sometimes she and her dad stay at Steve’s place for the weekend, whenever they have ocean adventures planned or she feels like grilled ‘ahi. Steve always ruffles her hair and reminds her that she is welcome in every nook and cranny of the house, but under no circumstances is she to touch the lock-boxes under his bed. (Then he sneaks her a cupcake when Danno isn’t looking, but that’s neither here nor there).

All in all, Gracie knows that guns are dangerous and that her father and her Uncle Steve use them to catch bad guys. She knows that guns kill people, and that they fire bullets, and that they hurt. But to be perfectly honest, she doesn’t really think about them all that much. There’s lots going on in life, and even though she’s proud of her dad, proud of her Uncle Steve for being brave, she’s got Mr. Hoppy and her friends and school and boys and books to think about.

\-----

Scrunching up her nose, Grace stares at the ceiling and sighs. She can’t sleep, has been tossing and turning for what feels like for _ever._ She wishes that she hadn’t left _Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets_ in her schoolbag by the front door – Ron and Harry have just crash-landed their flying car into the Weeping Willow and she’s desperate to find out what happens to them. She’s not supposed to sneak around the house after her bed-time; her mum usually lets her get away with one trip to the kitchen for a glass of water, but she’s already used up that excuse, tonight.

She stares at the ceiling for a few more minutes, before grumbling in defeat and swinging out of bed. Silently as she can, she slips into some soft socks and sneaks out of her bedroom, pads down the stairs, taking care to avoid the creaky step. She can hear the television chattering away to itself in the living room, (her mum and Stan are in the office), and she plans to tip-toe right past, when something on the screen catches her eye. Her book temporarily forgotten, she tucks herself to the edge of the doorframe and studies the screen, curious.

A group of men are prowling through the jungle. They have big guns, very long and thin, painted all splotchy brown and black. They have mud on their faces and they’re wearing crazy monster suits made out of leaves and twigs. A commanding voice is narrating, (she learned that word in English class, thank you), as the men move from tree to tree, slithering through the grass. She can’t quite make out everything that the voice is saying, but she hears snatches of lines. “When necessary, snipers will remain hidden for days on end, unmoving, blended completely with the environment, waiting for the perfect moment to take the kill shot.” 

Gracie doesn’t really know what a sniper is, but the word is familiar. She remembers one evening when Stan dropped her off at Danno’s work for the weekend, and she overheard a snatch of a conversation before the team realized that she was there. Kono and Steve had been talking about _optimal vantage points_ or something like that. She hadn’t really paid much attention, not when Chin had presented her with a lovely little book of animal pictures.

Trying to be sneaky, she pokes out a little further from behind the doorframe, watching as the scene changes on the television. Men in bulky green uniforms are now jumping out of a noisy helicopter, sliding down ropes and landing on a big grey ship in the middle of the ocean. The narrator says something about SEALs, and Gracie definitely knows _that_ word. 

There had been a weekend, long ago, when she and Danno had been sleeping over at Steve’s house. She’d spilled ice-cream all down the front of her PJs and Steve had given her a big blue t-shirt to wear to bed. It was so big that the sleeves swamped her elbows and the bottom hem was almost down to her ankles! Emblazoned across the front, was a big picture of an eagle with an anchor and a trident. Written beneath, in big bold letters, was: US NAVY SEALs. Steve had told her that it stood for Sea, Air and Land. She had quipped that there wasn’t much left for anybody else, really, and even the memory of the way he’d laughed still makes her grin from ear to ear.

So yes. Gracie knows what a SEAL is, and she knows that Steve is one. She knows that Steve uses those big skinny guns and that even if he doesn’t slide around sneakily in the mud anymore, he certainly used to. 

She’s just about to resume her quest to retrieve her book, when suddenly the scene changes again. Her heart thumps in her chest and she bites back a shriek of horror at what is on the screen. 

A body. Lifeless. Bloodied. Torn apart, the head shredded and tattered. The narrator is talking about SEALs and snipers and assassinations again, but all she can think about is her Uncle Steve. Her Uncle Steve who loves her endlessly, who lifts her up onto his shoulders so that she can reach the top shelf at the library. Her Uncle Steve, who is teaching her how to swim with the ocean currents and who knows just how she likes her pizza.

Frightened, she fights the urge to cry and retreats quietly back to her bedroom. Her book is long forgotten. With a sniffle, she settles into her pillow, but sleep is now even more elusive than ever. As she eventually drifts off into an uneasy doze, all she can do is wonder whether she really, truly, knows Uncle Steve, and if maybe he’s really a horrible person, after all.

\-----

Grace knows that there are certain things that she’s not allowed to look up, when she plays on the internet. When she’d received her very own laptop, there had been a very serious discussion about what _was_ and was _not_ acceptable. And _puh-lease_ , it’s not like she wanted to look at naked people anyway. 

Even though she and her mum have never really talked about it, she still knows in the back of her mind that she isn’t really supposed to look up _snipers_ , and what it is, exactly, that they do. 

And yet… she can’t quite help herself. She needs to know more. Her English teacher, Miss Leilani, told her not to use Wikipedia for researching projects, but she clicks the first link anyway. There are a lot of big words that she doesn’t quite understand, but she gets the gist of it. The problem with wiki, of course, is that the links are impossible to resist – before she knows it, she has several tabs open. Tabs on big, black, long guns – rifles, they’re called. Tabs on the Navy. Tabs on the Newark Police Department. Tabs on SEALs and all the horrible things they have to do, lifting heavy logs and blowing things up under water. The men all look angry, serious, dangerous – not at all like her beloved Uncle Steve.

The thing is… Gracie understands the police. When she was little, her Danno, he used to wear his dark blue uniform with all the big belts and radios and swooshy sticks and his gun. He patrolled the streets, kept people safe. And then he got a promotion, and he stopped wearing his uniform and started wearing ties instead. But even then, he was still _helping_ people, still doing good. When some poor soul was murdered it was his job to find out who had done it, and put them in jail. Gracie _gets_ that.

Now, as she pokes around on the internet, the more she reads about SEALs, the less she understands. The more she learns about snipers, the less she likes the sound of them. It seems as if the point is to kill people and be as sneaky about it as possible, and she doesn’t really know how she feels about that. 

She knows her dad uses guns when he’s at work, she knows, really, that her dad has killed people. She assumes that they’re bad people, people who are trying to do horrible things. People who are going to shoot him, if he doesn’t shoot them first.

Snipers, on the other hand… there seems something so mean about learning to kill a person from far away, whilst hiding up a tree in the dead of night. That’s it. That’s the end. They’re dead, they never knew those seconds were their last, they never even knew you were there. She thinks that they’re probably awful people, too, but it’s just so… sad. Why would you want to learn how to kill people?

\-----

The days pass, and soon enough it’s the weekend. She’s out with her dad, they’re at the supermarket to get some crunchy bread for their pumpkin soup, and then suddenly they round the aisle and smack right into Uncle Steve.

He smiles happily, reaches forward to ruffle her hair like always, and without even thinking about it she darts back behind her dad, her hand scrunched into the material of his jeans. She hasn’t done that in _years_ and truth be told, she’s way too old, (and too tall, sorry dad), for it to be of any use. 

Steve and Danny freeze, Steve’s hand still outstretched. He frowns and drops it to his side. “Gracie, what’s wrong?” His voice is soft and worried.

Suddenly overcome with shyness, she shakes her head, presses her face to her father’s back. She’s acting like a toddler, she knows she is, but the truth of it is that she’s just a little bit scared. Scared of Steve. It makes her feel awful, and when she finally peeks around her father to glance up at Steve, she can see that he looks utterly crestfallen.

“I… just, can we go, please, Danno?” she mumbles to her shoes. She sees her dad glance at Steve in apology, but when she starts to cry against her will, they leave the supermarket, their shopping basket forgotten at Steve’s feet.

\-----

Grace doesn’t really know how or why all of this is happening, but as she listens to Steve’s stifled groan every time he has to put his weight on his bad leg, she knows very well that it _is_ happening, whether she likes it or not.

She had woken up, groggy and sore, coiled awkwardly on a chilly cement floor in a dark, dank room. Once she had managed to blink her eyes open properly, let them adjust to the dark, she had noticed the shape of a man on the floor next to her. Her heart had jumped into her throat for a few frightened seconds until she had realized that it was Steve. All of her previous fears had immediately fled, and she had flung herself at him, seeking his familiarity and protection and comfort and warmth. After a few moments he had stirred, taking in their surroundings and checking her for injury with gentle hands.

And now, now they are stumbling through the jungle. Grace’s thin little cardigan is wrapped tightly around Steve’s thigh, the cream cotton stained with a brownish blood that she doesn’t like the look of one bit. Her hands are crusted over with it, it’s buried under her nails and pressed into the creases of her palms. (“I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” he’d whispered, when she had pressed her little fingers to his leg to try to stop the bleeding).

As they sneak from tree to tree, Gracie trying her hardest to be quiet, to help Steve walk, all she can think about is the way that he had launched himself in front of her. A bad guy had appeared out of nowhere as they’d been making their escape, and for one frozen second she’d stared right into the barrel of the very weapon she’d been taught to avoid.

There had been a bang, the loudest crack that she had ever heard – louder than a balloon popping, or a car backfiring, or even when the boys at school mixed things up in science class. She’d shrieked, not quite having the air in her lungs to scream; there had been the squeak of boots and suddenly, suddenly, Steve’s whole body crushing her to the floor. A grunt of pain quickly followed, and then he was gone again, punching the bad guy with a startling fury and stealing his gun.

She is startled from her thoughts by the sound of feet pounding behind them, splashing hastily in puddles and snapping twigs. The next thing she knows Steve is scooping her up, tucking her down behind a fallen log with little finesse and telling her to keep quiet.

And then… he’s gone. She knows, has complete faith, that he would never leave her. She still can’t help but be afraid, though. When the first cracking bang sounds out, rattles around the trees and startles birds up and away into the air, she squeezes her eyes shut. Another crack, a cry of pain, and she puts her hands over her eyes and hopes…

Well. Truth be told? She hopes that Steve has shot them. Because the alternative is that _they_ have shot Steve, and she can’t bear the thought.

It feels like she waits for hours and hours, but eventually a hand gently grips her shoulder. She slowly uncurls from her little ball of limbs, opens her eyes to see Steve peering down at her. “Grace, Grace,” he says. “It’s okay, it’s me, it’s me, it’s Steve.”

She looks up at him. She looks down at the gun he holds in his other hand, his grip sure, fingers curled around the weapon like it’s an old habit. With a tremulous smile, she stands up, tucks herself against his side to steady him. “It’s you. It’s you.”

\-----

Grace has been home for a day, practically wrapped in a cocoon of love since the moment Danny had flung himself from his still moving car and wrapped himself around her. She’s had lots of hugs from mum and Kono; she’s fallen asleep on Stan’s comfy shoulder; she’s pressed her fingers to Chin’s palm when she gets the shakes. And then there’s her father, a constant protective presence, always in the room with her, inspecting every little detail for impending threat.

She insists on seeing Steve the minute he’s awake. Stan wants to keep her at home, and she knows that he’s only worried about her. Nevertheless, she crosses her arms angrily and says, “this is non… non-negotiable,” the way her mum sometimes does when she’s on the work-phone in the study.

By the time she sets her eyes on Steve, his hospital room is overflowing with people. She looks up at him, overwhelmed by the bodies and the beeping and the chatter. To her relief, he catches her eye, smiles in understanding and before she knows it, everybody is filing out of the room. Kono pulls the door shut gently, but Grace knows that her dad will be standing guard right outside.

Once there is quiet, and it’s just the two of them, Steve pats the edge of the bed and beckons her over. “You did so well, Gracie.” 

She feels that same shyness take over again, that inability to meet his gaze, and she squeezes her eyes shut. _You kill people,_ she thinks. _But you’re… you. You’re my Steve._

“Gracie,” Steve continues. “What’s been upsetting you?” He doesn’t look angry, just a little sad. “Have I done something?”

Her eyes still squeezed shut, she shakes her head. “No. No, I…” she trails off, opens her eyes, rushes over to him. After a second of hesitation she clambers up onto his bed, careful of his injured leg. It is the work of but a second to tuck herself under his arm. He’s comfortable, warm and surprisingly soft beneath the crisp white linen of his hospital scrubs.

She takes a deep breath, studies the weird beige walls with intense focus. “You kill people.”

She feels him instantly tense against her side.

“No,” she hurries out, holds up her hands. “Let me finish. You kill people. I… I know that Danno does too, and Aunty Kono and Uncle Chin. I know that. But you… you _really_ kill people. Ugh, that sounds stupid.” She scrunches up her nose, annoyed at her inability to articulate her thoughts. “What I mean is… what I mean is. You’re a SEAL. Your whole job is killing people. But you’re… you’re you, you take care of me and I don’t understand.” Hesitantly, she carries on, but in a whisper. “I looked up what snipers do on the internet.”

Steve frowns, but he doesn’t look angry, merely thoughtful. “Well,” he says, slowly, softly. “What you need to understand, first of all, is that my whole job is _not_ killing people. Do you believe me when I say that?”

She nods. He wouldn’t lie to her, in that she has complete faith.

A few minutes of silence pass. Looking lost in thought, he curls his hand around hers, fingertips rubbing a soft pattern into her palm. She remembers the way he had held that gun in the middle of the jungle, sure and steady and dangerous; she looks at the way he now holds her hand, gentle and comforting. Strange that those same fingers should perform such different tasks.

“There are some things,” he begins, “that I can tell you, and there are some things that I can’t. We’ll ask your parents, okay? And then maybe you and I can go out for pizza one night and I’ll answer some of your questions. What I _can_ tell you, right now, is this: I made a decision, a long time ago, to lead my life a certain way. You’re old enough, and brave enough, and smart enough to know that there are bad people in this world.” 

He pauses, looks to her for confirmation before continuing. “There are bad people in this world, Grace, and it’s my job to deal with them. I try to out-think them, try to out-maneuver them, but sometimes, yes, I have to kill them. Sometimes what they’re doing is just so terrible, so dangerous, that I have to make a choice. And I’m okay with that. I don’t enjoy killing people, but I do it. I know that you probably think being a sniper is horrible, and that’s okay.”

At this, she hides her face against his arm, because the truth that she’s slowly arrived at is that, yes, she does think it’s horrible. She understands what he’s saying, but she doesn’t think that it’s ever a choice that she, herself, could make.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs reassuringly. “You’re allowed to think that. What I _do_ need you to know, is that I would never, ever hurt you.”

Suddenly, fat salty droplets are sliding down her cheeks against her will. She presses her nose to the warm cotton of his shirt, uncaring that she’s getting him all messy as she cries and sniffles. She doesn’t know how she’d ever worried, ever looked at him and only seen that broken, bloodied body lying crumpled on the ground. She might not like the idea that he kills people, but she knows that he’s a good person, she knows that he loves her. “I know,” she says, with complete confidence and sincerity.

The thing, she realizes as she drifts off next to him, is that he saved her. He saved her. And maybe, maybe that’s the point. Maybe his whole job isn’t about killing people. Maybe it’s about saving them. Saving them when they can’t save themselves.

\-----

By the time her dad moves in with Steve a few months later, the three of them have developed a little routine. The second Sunday of every month, they pick some flowers from the garden and drive out to Punchbowl Cemetery for the morning. Steve has been teaching her about his family history, telling her all about his father and his grandfather, about Pearl Harbor and the Navy. She supposes that it’s _her_ family history, now, too, and a bloom of pride unfurls in her chest. 

Like every other time they’ve visited, today they all stand side by side, tucked together in front of John McGarrett’s plaque. She changes the water in the little bucket that is tucked into the earth, pops the fresh flowers in and arranges them until they’re sitting right. When she steps back, she slips one hand into Steve’s and one hand into her dad’s, squeezing tightly to get their attention.

“I’ve been thinking,” she begins, as she traces her gaze over the dates of Mr. McGarrett’s life and death. “I’ve been thinking, and I’ve decided that… I don’t want to be a policewoman. And I don’t want to be in the Navy. It’s just… not for me. Is that…” she trails off, before gathering her courage once more. “Is that okay?”

Uncle Steve reaches out, ruffles her hair, and she knows that everything is fine.

\-----

Sitting in the back seat of the Marquis, Gracie enjoys the way the wind whistles through the open windows as they weave along the coast. Steve and Danny are bickering about _poor automobile maintenance_ , as per usual, but she doesn’t fail to notice the way their hands briefly touch over the gear stick when they think that she’s not paying attention. 

Every now and then, she chimes in, in defense of the Marquis’ recently stellar track record. Her dad mock-scowls at her, calls her a traitor of the highest order.

Truth be told, she loves these days when they go to the cemetery. Even though it makes her sad, she has grown to understand the sacrifice that the men and women who rest there have made. And if her heart squeezes just a little, whenever she sees a fallen SEAL, well, she’s learning to live with it. It only makes her that much prouder of her Uncle Steve.

The thing is, in the end, she’s never going to be like him. She’s never going to make the same choices that he has made, the same choices that her Danno has made. But when she catches Steve’s warm gaze in the rear-view mirror, basks in the way her father is turned in his seat to smile at her, she knows that whatever she chooses to do with her life, she’s going to make them proud.


End file.
